The clock he was working on today had not yet been catalogued. It had only just been bequeathed to the Museum by an old woman whose late husband had run a watchmaker’s and repairer’s somewhere near the City. She had brought several clocks to the Museum. But this one was the most interesting — and the one that needed the most work.
During the day his time was taken up with servicing and tending the main exhibits. There was precious little left after that and the incessant cataloguing. George had spent three evenings working on the clock in his own time. But only tonight had he got to the actual mechanism. At first glance the clock was a model ship. It was about a foot long, exquisitely crafted from metal and wood. The dial of the clock itself was set into the side of the ship’s hull. The ship’s wheel clicked round with every second. A miniature captain stood watching it move. Other sailors went about their duties on deck — scrubbing the planks, opening hatches, even scaling the rigging. Each and every one clicked forward as the second hand on the dial moved: brushing back and forth; lifting and closing; hand over hand. There was even a tiny monkey that appeared at the windows of a cabin to stare out at the real world beyond the ship.
And every hour, on the hour, a varying number of hatches above the dial in the side of the boat snapped open, and a varying number of cannon emerged to fire however many shots the hour called for — one cannon for each hour past noon or midnight. Every percussion was a hollow click of a lever hitting a drum deep within the hull where the mechanism was housed. If you peered into the dark interior, behind the cannon, it was just possible to make out the diminutive figures of the sailors touching their tapers to the cannon to fire them. Every detail was true to life, apart from the size and the need to reload between shots.
It had taken George many hours to rebuild the model. He had repaired, replaced, cleaned and polished. Now he turned his attention to the clockwork itself. At the moment, the clock was hesitant. The second hand moved erratically. The sailors jerked and spasmed. The cannon in the hull only worked occasionally. From inside came the constant grinding of gears and crunching of cogs when a mechanism as delicate and precise as this should be all but silent.
As he carefully unscrewed the deck and lifted it clear of the hull to expose the workings within, it occurred to George that a cog with its teeth worn away from over-use was exactly the sort of problem that might cause this erratic behaviour and he wondered again what Sir William’s role at the Museum was. But he was soon lost in his work, the words of Sir William Protheroe forgotten.
At eight o’clock, George was shaken from his concentration by the striking of the hour. Almost simultaneously and all around him, hundreds of mechanisms clicked into place — bells were struck, chimes rang, even a cuckoo appeared. And to George Archer’s immense pride and satisfaction, eight small hatches sprang open to allow eight tiny cannon to emerge and fire eight staccato shots.
He sat back, folding his arms and watching the little figures go through their clockwork motions. George found himself wishing Sir William would return, so he could show him the clock. So he could tell him what he had done to get it working again, and how the teeth had indeed been stripped from one of the cogs by years of measuring time. But the Museum was silent, save for the constant ticking from all the clocks. George carefully picked up the ship and took it through to one of the store rooms.
There was a dusty mirror propped against the wall of the little store room. It was fifteenth-century French, the plaster frame chipped and discoloured. The silvering of the mirror was tarnished and worn so that looking into it was like seeing your reflection in a pool of muddy water on a bright day. George paused to straighten his tie and smooth down his tangle of brown hair. He looked tired, he thought — with his curly hair more under control, his long face seemed all the longer. Or maybe it was the angle of the mirror. He grinned at himself, and his boyish expression made him look even younger than his nineteen years.
Walking swiftly through the exhibition rooms towards the way out, George realised he was hungry. He could not remember if he had bothered with lunch. He would have to get his own dinner when he got home. Only a year ago, his father would have had it waiting — would have complained at George’s lateness. Only a year ago, they would have eaten together in the tiny dining room of father’s little town house and then talked into the evening until father fell asleep in front of the dying fire, his mouth open and his snores making George smile. Only a year ago. He sighed softly to think of it, smiled slightly at the memories of good times gone by.
Memories of his dead father made George think of old Percy Smythe. He might still be working in Documents, on the way to the Museum exit. He could look in on his way out of the building, and George would delight in telling Percy about the clock. No doubt Percy would have a tale of his own to recount — a manuscript preserved, a code deciphered, a book found to be wrongly catalogued … Now that his colleague Albert was gone, Percy would welcome the company. George would welcome the company too. He had seen no one since Sir William. Now the Museum seemed gloomy and deserted — the corridors echoed to George’s footsteps, and the galleries and viewing rooms were shadowy and empty. Or rather, they were not empty. They were crammed with exhibits — statues, relics, machines, manuscripts
… All standing silent and still in the gloom of the evening.
At first George thought that Percy Smythe had already left. The room where he worked, where they stored the uncatalogued manuscripts and volumes seemed to be in darkness. But when his eyes adjusted, George realised there was a faint glow from the back of the room, and as he approached, he could see that it came from a single oil lamp on a desk piled high with books. The light was almost lost behind the stacks, and he had to pick his way carefully through the gloom.
Once he was close to the desk, George could see Percy Smythe. Or rather, he could see his head. It was completely bald, the top reflecting the yellow glow of the lamp like an old blank page as Percy peered down at his work. George watched him making meticulous notes in a ledger. He held a small notebook in his left hand, angling it so he could read the text. Close by was a small pile of identical notebooks, leather bound and dog-eared. George pulled the door shut behind him and cleared his throat. There was no reaction.
‘It’s past three in the morning,’ he announced loudly, ‘and your wife is here to collect you.’
This did get a response. But Percy replied without looking up. ‘I doubt if it has gone nine,’ he said. ‘And I am happy to report that I am no more married today than I was last time you claimed my wife was waiting for me, Albert. Whenever that might have been.’
The pen scratched a few more words, then Percy set it down. He carefully replaced the notebook on its pile and rubbed his eyes. ‘I am sorry, George,’ he said, looking up.
‘No,’ George assured him. ‘I am sorry. It was a silly thing to say. I shouldn’t have reminded you of …’ He sighed, shaking his head at his own thoughtlessness.
‘It wasn’t silly of me because when Albert used to say it.’ The lamp gleamed in Percy’s moist eyes. ‘Though it did become a little wearing, I have to admit.’
‘It was silly because Albert used to say it,’ George confessed. ‘I thought it might amuse you. Instead …’ He shook his head, annoyed at himself.
‘I’m sure poor Albert would not mind you stealing his joke.’
‘That isn’t what I meant.’ George moved a book from a chair on his side of the desk and sat down.
‘I know,’ Percy said. He pointed to the pile of notebooks. ‘Albert had started on these, so I suppose he was in my thoughts anyway. Don’t worry yourself. It is better to remember him fondly, to recall his jokes …’
They sat in silence for several moments, each remembering their friend and colleague. The oil lamp flickered and Percy turned up the wick.
‘So what are they?’ George asked, pointing to the notebooks.
‘Diaries. They were bequeathed to the Museum recently and unexpectedly. Found when Sir Henry Glick’s
house was finally cleared out. There are over a dozen and I am not yet half way through them.’
George shook his head. ‘Glick — never heard of him. Was he famous?’
‘I suppose not,’ Percy admitted, raising an eyebrow at George’s ignorance. ‘He was a scientist. A geologist mainly, but with a keen interest in fossils and the origins of life.’
‘And he kept a diary.’
‘Indeed. Very useful too. He describes his theories, keeps sketches and diagrams. Even pressed flowers.’
‘Albert would have loved that.’
‘I’m sure he did.’ Percy nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I think he was enjoying his work. Except …’
George waited. But when Percy said nothing more, he prompted him: ‘Except what?’
‘Oh nothing. Just some nonsense he was telling me that last morning. Another of his jokes, perhaps.’
‘Oh?’
Percy ran a hand over his smooth scalp. ‘He said that someone had approached him with an offer. For the diaries.’
George frowned. ‘What sort of an offer?’
‘Money, I assume. I didn’t really pay much attention. He said someone wanted to get hold of the diaries. I suggested he tell them to wait until they were catalogued and on display or lodged in the Library. Then they could see them. But he implied they wanted to keep them, and that there was some urgency. Even the trustees cannot sell off items from the Museum, Albert knew that. And this knave, whoever he was, must have known that was the case too.
‘Joking, perhaps,’ George agreed.
‘Albert or the person who approached him?’ Percy shook his head. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter. And we can’t ask him now, can we?’ Percy got to his feet and took his jacket off the back of the chair. ‘You’re right, it is time I was getting home,’ he decided.
‘I can wait if you like. If you want company while you finish.’
Percy smiled. ‘Thank you, but I have done enough for today. We can walk together.’
They made their way carefully through the semi-darkness of the office. There was a noise coming from outside, from the corridor that led to the main entrance. A bang, like a door being shoved open, and then running feet.
‘What’s going on?’ George wondered.
‘Goodness only knows,’ Percy said without apparent interest. They were almost at the door when he turned back towards the desk at the far end of the room. ‘I forgot to extinguish the lamp.’
‘I’ll get it,’ George volunteered, already picking his way back through the stacks of books and papers.
Which was why he was not standing with Percy at the door when it crashed open.
The first man through the door and into the office was enormous — his frame almost blotting out the light from the corridor beyond. The man who followed him was only slightly smaller. The door caught Percy on the shoulder and sent him reeling backwards. He gave a cry of pain and surprise, trying to catch his balance. But before he could manage, the large man stepped forward and smashed his fist into Percy’s face — sending him spinning backwards. Percy’s feet collided with a stack of books and he fell heavily. Even from across the room, George could hear the crack as Percy’s head smashed into the edge of a low table.
George had no time to react. Already both the intruders were striding across the room towards him. He backed away, knocking over a stack of papers. He was not afraid to put up a fight, but he doubted he could take on both the men. And he was worried about Percy — now lying still amongst the manuscripts and books at the other end of the room.
‘Where is it?’ the big man hissed. His face was glowing in the lamplight as he leaned across the desk. A pale white scar cut like a shadow down the whole of one side of his face, pausing only to let his bloodshot eye stare out at George.
‘What?’ George replied, his voice hesitant and taut with nerves. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Could be anywhere,’ the other man answered. He kicked at a pile of books, sending them sliding across the floor. One volume flapped open, its pages bent and torn. ‘Look at all this stuff.’
‘We don’t have time to go through this lot,’ the big man decided. Unlike his comrade he sounded educated and refined, almost deferential. But then he lunged suddenly across the desk, arms out, reaching for George.
George stepped back again, feeling his feet tangle with books and papers. The man’s stubby fingers closed just in front of this throat.
‘Where is it?’ the man demanded again. His face was twisted into a snarl of rage, and with a single savage movement, he swept the desk clear. The various piles of books toppled, papers sliced through the air. The oil lamp crashed to the floor, spilling a pool of fire across the bare wooden boards. ‘Where is Glick’s diary?’
George swallowed, staring into the flames as they raced through the pool of liquid and attacked the nearest papers. In seconds, books were burning too — the volumes from the desk curling and blackening as the flames set to work.
‘Right now,’ George said slowly, his throat dry and scratchy as the smoke clawed at it, ‘Glick’s diary is on fire.’
For a single second the two intruders stood absolutely still, staring into the gathering flames. Then they both hurled themselves at the fire, reaching in for the burning books, cursing as the fire bit and spat at them. George left them to it, watching them reach in and pull out the volumes one by one as he himself edged quickly round the other side of the desk and ran to where Percy was lying.
‘It’s the last volume we want,’ the larger man was saying. He tossed several of the notebooks aside. ‘The one that he never finished.’ He kicked papers and books out of the way of the flames in an effort to stop it spreading.
The other man was riffling through another volume. He dropped it when he saw there were no blank pages at the end.
George spared them little more than a glance. He knelt down beside Percy, shuddering at the sight of the gash across his head. He almost cried with relief as Percy moved, and a groan of pain emerged feebly from his lips.
‘They want Glick’s diary,’ George said quietly. ‘Are you all right?’
Percy’s eyelids flickered in response. His whole body seemed to be shivering in the firelight. From somewhere in the distance came the sound of a whistle.
‘Peelers!’ One of the men shouted urgently. They both dropped the books they were holding, and ran for the door.
‘Hold on,’ George said. ‘Help’s coming.’ He cradled Percy’s head in his lap, not knowing what else to do. Percy was staring up at him, his eyes wide but unfocused. George felt he should try to keep him talking until someone came to help. Keep him conscious. ‘Why do they want the diary?’ he said. ‘Why the last volume? Do you know?’
Percy swallowed, his whole body shifting slightly with the effort. His lips quivered. ‘Lori …’ he gasped.
‘What?’
‘Lorimore,’ Percy managed to say. ‘They — help … Or …’
‘Or? Or what?’
But that was not what Percy was trying to say. He shook his head slightly as he forced out the words: ‘Augustus Lorimore.’
His whole body arched in a sudden spasm. Then he slumped down heavily, and was still. George slowly took his hands from under Percy’s head. To his surprise he saw that they were dark and wet.
Someone else was crouched down beside George and Percy. ‘I’m afraid he’s gone.’ George wondered how long Sir William Protheroe had been there with him, holding Percy’s hand — or rather, George now saw, his wrist.
‘There’s no pulse,’ Sir William said. ‘I am so sorry.’ He straightened up. ‘I found the guard at the entrance unconscious, so I blew his whistle. The policemen from D Division who are supposed to patrol the Museum have now given chase, but I rather doubt they will catch the miscreants.’ He looked down at Percy’s staring, sightless eyes, as if realising how inadequate the word was. ‘The murderers,’ he corrected himself.
Gently, George lay his friend’s head on the floor and stood up.
Even in the glow of the dying fire, he could see that he was himself coated with blood. He felt empty and numb and cold. ‘We should put the fire out,’ he said, and his voice was calm, emotionless, dead.
The flames had died down to a flicker now the oil had burned away. The fire struggled to reach more paper or books, but was unable to jump that far. George stared down at the embers — at the charred, curling remains of the books. One of them was almost intact, he saw. So before he stamped out the remaining flames, he picked it gingerly out of the ashes. The leather cover was hot, but not too hot to hold. The book was one of the volumes of the diary, and without thinking, George opened it. The pages were dry and brittle and yellowed with the heat. The surviving cover was the back of the book, and he saw that the pages were blank. The final volume. The book the men had been searching for.
Not that it would have done them any good, he realised. All the remaining pages were blank. The front of the book had burned completely away. A single charred fragment of paper detached itself from the spine and fluttered down towards the flames. As it fell, George could see that there was writing on it. He dropped the book, and grabbed at the piece of brittle paper, catching it just before it fell back into the dying fire.
It was barely a quarter of a page from the notebook. Neatly written across the remains, a fragment of handwriting. A line and a half of words that emerged from the torn edge and disappeared into a charred blackness:
‘… now know which came first, and I can prove it. The answer lies in the Crystal …’
‘Sir Henry Glick’s diary.’ The words cut through George’s reverie, and he saw that Sir William was carefully picking up the surviving notebooks.
‘The last volume got burned, I’m afraid,’ George said.
The elderly man clicked his tongue. ‘A shame. But his first work, his greatest discoveries will be detailed in the earlier volumes. At least we still have them.’ He picked up several surviving volumes and stacked them on the desk before looking round, shaking his head sadly. ‘Such a waste. Even without the loss of life, it would be unforgivable. As it is …’ He spread his hands out as if trying to show how great a crime he considered it to be. ‘What could possibly be worth this?’
The Death Collector doua-1 Page 2
